


Day 3 - Cinnabar

by Pippitypopadoo



Series: StoryADay May 2014 [3]
Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 18:31:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1559972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pippitypopadoo/pseuds/Pippitypopadoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Work the words vermillion and musky somewhere in the next 250 words you write.</p><p>Life is full of colours, and red the most vibrant of them all. It is the colour of the blood we bleed for our passions.</p><p>---<br/>I failed the 250 word requirement, but surely it's all right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 3 - Cinnabar

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning: Knowing what cinnabar or vermilion is might let you have a hint of where this story goes.

The painter sat on the stepladder, admiring his masterpiece. It was his best work yet, this final piece. The people will rhapsodise about it, sing praises about it, even those imbecile naysayers who had ever doubted him and constantly tripping him on his path to success. But they will know better now. He would be eulogised as a genius, a prodigy, placed on the pedestal he always deserved.

He supposed, he might as well be magnanimous and forgive them. He could not fault them for their pathetic ignorance. Mortals are always so stupid, he reminded himself and shook his head sadly. How outrageous, now that he thought about it, to have let their yammering get to him, let the rejection and irritated 'You are hardly of the calibre that we seek', the unspoken _you are useless, you are talentless, you think you are the best but really, take a look at yourself_ push him towards bottles after bottles of wine and days where he watched the walls in a stupor. 

Well, no longer. He would no longer live like that. That was beneath him, for he will soon join the ranks of Michelangelo and da Vinci in heaven!

He leapt off the stepladder and went to the kitchen to get wine glasses. Guests were coming! It would not do to be a poor host, not when he would be showing his work to some of his cruellest critics and showing them how wrong they were. But there were also other interested parties, parties who surely had always had faith in him. Tonight would be a night to remember.

Pouring his finest wine into them, he admired the fine dark red liquid flowing into the glasses. He did love red. Scarlet, maroon, saffron... but most of all, vermilion, made from ground cinnabar crystals. Bright like his passion, like the blood of life running in his veins. He contemplated his wine. Such a deep red was nice, but vermilion was much nicer.

He needed the best wine to complement his best work. It wouldn't do for the colour scheme to clash.

The painter sang under his breath as he walked back to his studio, voice husky from disuse. He had not spoken for days, for he had toiled day and night in his studio, but now he sang.

_Sing a song of sixpence_

_A pocket full of rye,_

_Four and twenty blackbirds_

_Baked in a pie._

He picked up dish of ground cinnabar. He had gotten them from the best supplier in the country and they did nicely for his finger-painted work. They would do nicely now.

_When the pie was opened_

_The birds began to sing,_

He brought it back to the kitchen and sprinkled generous amounts of the bright red mercury compound into the wine. He swirled them and ah, that was a far nicer colour. Not so bright that it wouldn't look like wine anymore, oh no, wine was still wine after all and he would not spoil a fine drink like that. But surely he had increased the quality of the drink!

_Oh wasn't that a dainty dish_

_To set before the king?_

Anything with vermilion was better.

The best drink, for the guests of the best painter in the world, right?

 _Ding_! Ah, his doorbell, the guests were arriving! And his fingers were still stained with vermilion paint, that would not do, even as pretty as the paint was. He quickly rinsed them off and dried his hands on his pants. The painter rushed to the door, then frowned. He had painted his door his favourite colour months... Months? How long had it been, since he began planning this particular art project? But surerly it had not been that long, and yet the colour had darkened again. It would turn black soon.

He would have to repaint it, with that high quality paint he would get from the cinnabar he had splurged on, later, he promised himself. There would be time for that.

The painter patted down his hair and put on his best smile.

He opened the door.

 


End file.
